


I Like How He Smells

by grimeslincoln



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Bipolar Disorder, Canon Compliant, Drug Use, Except There's No Breakup, Fluff, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, M/M, Set after season 5
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-12
Updated: 2017-06-25
Packaged: 2018-11-10 12:37:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11127141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grimeslincoln/pseuds/grimeslincoln
Summary: 100 different ways in which Ian and Mickey say 'I love you' without actually saying the words.





	1. Take My Jacket

**Author's Note:**

> So this is my first time properly writing Ian and Mickey and although it's a massive task, I've wanted to write a '100 Ways' fic for ages, so I hope you enjoy it!
> 
> Also, I have mixed up the usual order of the different ways, however they will all be included in the fic at some point.
> 
> Tags will be updated with each chapter and I will be super grateful for any comments or feedback left! Enjoy!

_Take my jacket. It’s cold outside._  
  
Mickey stirred awake to the bustle of bodies in the kitchen and the familiar clamour of the second-hand, chipped mugs hitting the countertop. His eyes were still heavy from sleep, each part of his body gradually waking up as he came to his senses, becoming increasingly aware of the biting chill against the bare skin of his thighs, the broken radiator fixed to the wall doing nothing to battle the winter cold.  
  
He supressed an irritated groan as he read the digital alarm clock next to his head, the flashing red letters informing him that it was barely past 7am, even though he didn’t have any jobs today and there was absolutely no fucking reason for him to even consider getting out of bed before noon.  
He cursed whatever shithead was making the racket in the next room, contemplating getting out of bed and telling them exactly what he thought about them disturbing his sleep, when he finally noted the missing presence next to him.  
  
He propped himself up on to his elbow, lifting an inked knuckle to clear the remnants of sleep from his eyes, and peered over at the empty space besides him, which lacked a certain ginger figure.  
His brow creased in confusion as he took in the wrinkled, stained sheets and the pillow next to his that was still indented from Ian’s head; evidence that he had in fact being lying there at some point in the night.  
  
Mickey had become accustomed to the fact that Ian was a morning person, the other man usually having eaten, gotten dressed and on his way out by the time that Mickey was making his first, strong coffee of the day, grumbling to himself as he done so.

  
But even Ian was rarely awake before eight, and even then he would lie in bed, playing games on his battered old phone, that had been passed on from Lip, or reading some shitty comic that Mickey made fun of him for liking, waiting until his boyfriend awoke.  
And Mickey would never, in a million years, admit it to the red-head but he enjoyed waking up next to him, smothered by the younger man’s intense body heat, the feel of his skin against his back, reminding him that he was there.

  
Ian would always know the second that Mickey drifted in to consciousness, putting down whatever he was occupied with or snapping himself out of his thoughts to immediately slide himself up against the older man, greeting him with the heavy pressure of his lips against the dips of his throat and the ghost of his fingers along the band of his boxers.  
  
But now the double bed was cold and Mickey couldn’t deny the disappointment that rose in his chest at the realisation that Ian wasn’t besides him.  
  
_Get over it_ , he scolded himself as he sat up, reminding himself that there was obviously a reasonable explanation as to why Ian wasn’t next to him. Over the past few months he’d had to learn how to squash down his panic every time that his boyfriend wasn’t in his direct line of sight, but ever since the diagnosis his natural instinct had been to worry about Ian’s wellbeing.  
  
God, he was turning in to such a fucking wife.  
  
He overcame his initial distress and snatched the half empty packet of smokes from his bedside table, pulling out one of the cigarettes and resting it comfortably in between his lips, like an extension of himself. He fumbled around amidst the crushed beer cans, overflowing ashtray and switchblade that littered the table top for his lighter, finally discovering it behind a half empty bottle of beer.

  
He successfully lit the cig after the third try, taking a moment to savour the taste of the nicotine filling his lungs before pushing himself off of the mattress, pulling on the first pair of remotely clean trousers he could find on the floor and making his way out of the bedroom.  
  
He stepped out of the room, itching at his crotch as he entered the open plan dining area, taking in the scene that had disturbed his sleep at such an ungodly hour. Mandy was bustling around in the kitchen, an oversized t-shirt of some shitty band barely brushing the tops of her thighs and her newly dyed hair tied messily away from her face as she busied herself with simultaneously making coffee and frying bacon at the same time. Mickey’s gaze skimmed over his sister and focused in on Ian, who had one leg bent up on the arm of the sofa, concentrating on tying the laces of his trainers, that Mickey wasn’t even aware he owned.  
  
Mickey was surprised to find that the red-head looked as if he was about to run a marathon, dressed down in a pair of baggy basketball shorts and and a figure-hugging camouflage t-shirt, one that he likely hadn’t worn since back in his ROTC days, that felt like a lifetime ago.  
He looked up as he heard the bedroom door open and a smile immediately lit up his face, dimples carving their way in to his cheeks like craters, as he noticed the disgruntled, dark-haired man standing before him, looking mildly confused and slightly pissed off. Not that that was anything new.  
  
“Morning,” he basically sang out as he stepped forwards, his long legs carrying him across the room in practically one step, plucking the cigarette from Mickey’s lips and covering the other man’s mouth with his own, unbothered by his pungent morning breath.  
He pulled back after a few seconds, one hand trailing absent-mindedly down Mickey’s naked chest as he took a drag from the half-burnt out smoke.  
  
Mickey still appeared as though he was half-asleep but his demeanour relaxed slightly, some of the tension releasing from his body at the press of Ian’s lips against his. He snatched back his cigarette with a frown that lacked any real annoyance behind it and returned it to it’s previous position, attempting to ignore the way the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end as his boyfriend’s fingertips trailed down his stomach.  
  
“The fuck you two doing up?” he grunted as Ian moved away to begin untangling the mess of his earphone wires, tongue poking out from his mouth in fixed concentration as he done so.  
  
Mandy shrugged in response, removing the frying pan from the stove and pushing the almost-burnt bacon on to one of the only clean plates she could find, instinctively swatting the back of Mickey’s head as he swanned over and stole one of the rashers, stuffing it in to his mouth before she could stop him.  
  
“Asswipe,” she muttered, dodging out of his grasp before he could reach out and twist her nipple like he normally did in retaliation, no matter how much she told him to stop doing it.  
  
“Skank,” he settled on retorting, swallowing down the bacon and moving to pour himself a coffee in the first mug that came to hand; one of Svetlana’s that had some Russian quote on it that he couldn’t understand. “And what are you doing dressed like you’re going to run a fucking marathon before the kid’s even up, you on fucking crack?”  
  
Ian looked up at Mickey’s words, finally managing to unscramble his earphones and plugging them in to his phone.  
  
“I thought I should start trying to get back in to shape,” he shrugged, as if Mickey couldn’t already use his abs as a damn washboard. Ian noted the concern laced in the older mans voice and the way that he was chewing furiously on his bottom lip like he always did when he was nervous, the unspoken question on the tip of his tongue; _Are you off your meds?_  
  
Guilt began pooling in the pits of his stomach as he realised what his sudden burst of energy and irregular behaviour looked like to the other man; he hadn’t even stopped to consider how out-of-character this looked considering he hadn’t done more than a few pull ups in the past couple of months.  
  
“Hey,” his demeanour shifted to something more serious as he walked up to Mickey, pulling him closer by the waistband of the sweatpants that hung low on his hips, voice firm and reassuring, maintaining eye contact as he soothed his concerns; “I’m not manic, okay? Debbie texted earlier, said she was going for a jog and asked if I wanted to join her. I thought it might be good for me.”  
  
Mickey ran his tongue over his top row of teeth and stared back at Ian, as if studying him for any hint of a lie, before nodding, seemingly having decided that there’s wasn’t anything to immediately worry about.  
  
“Alright,” he shrugged, eyebrows raised so much they were practically touching his hairline, “if you wanna go and freeze your fucking nutsacks off first thing in the morning, be my fucking guest.”  
  
Ian couldn’t help but laugh at his choice of words, eyes crinkling as he stared down at the grumpy man in amusement, grateful that he’d decided not to push the issue any further. He knew that Mickey still worried constantly, and he appreciated his concern, but he was doing well; he’d finally found a combination of meds that worked for him, was seeing a therapist despite the Gallagher’s strict ‘no shrinks’ rule and he was making sure that he talked to Mickey whenever he felt something was off.  
  
“Could ’a tried not to fucking wake me up at the crack of dawn,” Mickey muttered, still irritated about being rudely pulled from his sleep.  
  
“I’m sorry, I know how desperately you need your beauty sleep,” Ian teased back, head cocked playfully to the side as he squeezed Mickey’s hips.  
  
“Ey, fuck you!” Mickey shoved his middle finger in his face in response, sucking hungrily on his lower lip as his body automatically began responding to the close proximity of Ian’s body next to his and the way the younger man’s fingers were pressing hard in to his hip bones.  
  
However, he quickly remembered the presence of his sister, who was actively attempting to ignore their flirting as she munched away on her breakfast, and attempted to get himself under control, half-heartedly shoving Ian away from him with a grin.  
  
“Don’t worry, I’ll make it up to you when I get back,” Ian smirked suggestively, voice hushed and husky so that only Mickey could hear him, wiggling his eyebrows like the fucking dork he was.  
  
“Yeah alright Usain fucking Bolt, let’s see if you can even go on a run without breaking a fucking hip first.” Mickey stepped away from him, taking another drag of his cigarette and purposely blowing the smoke in to his boyfriend’s face with an amused quirk of his lips.  
  
“Okay, but you’ll be the one missing out,” Ian quipped as Mandy made a gagging sound in the back of her throat from across the room. That seemed to snap the two of them out of their bubble, causing Mickey to duck his head in embarrassment and Ian to let out a harsh bark of laughter. “Alright I’m going to head out, Debbie’s probably wondering where the hell I am.”  
  
“Since when is Debbie in to exercise, anyway?” Mandy spoke up as she stood from the table, carelessly throwing her plate on top of the mounting pile of dishes in the sink and leaning up against the kitchen counter, opposite her brother.  
  
“I don’t even know,” Ian shook his head, having gotten used to his sister’s tendency to latch on to new things to do, to the point of becoming obsessive over them, “I think she’s trying to impress some boy at school.”  
  
Mandy scoffed, unsurprised, “tell her that if he rejects her I have a new baton she can use.”  
  
“I’ll be sure to pass it on,” Ian backed out of the kitchen with a quick two fingered salute, moving to leave out of the front door, shuffling through the limited amount of music on his phone as he done so. “I’ll be back soon.”  
  
“Hey,” Mickey called out, capturing the younger man’s attention and causing him to glance at him expectantly. “Take a jacket, it’s fucking cold as balls outside.”  
  
Ian tried to supress his smile at the other man’s obvious concern for his wellbeing, despite how he would furiously deny the fact that he gave a shit if it was brought up; would probably claim that he just didn’t want to hear Ian complaining about how freezing he was for the rest of the day.  
  
Mickey ignored Ian’s dopey facial expression and the way that Mandy was glancing amusedly at him out of the corner of her eye.

“Sure thing, _mom_ ,” Ian smirked, unable to stop himself from poking fun at the irritable dark-haired man as he grabbed one of the jackets that were flung over the back of the sofa and ducked out of the house before Mickey could throw something at him in response.

  
Mickey’s watched in a mixture of irritation and undeniable adoration as Ian shot him a grin over his shoulder before leaving, stumping out what was left of his smoke in one Svet’s stupid potted plants and moving to take a seat at the table.  
  
“You are so fucking whipped,” Mandy broke the silence with a laugh as she stared, delighted, at her older brother, ducking in to her bedroom before he could retaliate with another titty twister.  
  
Mickey just shook his head in exasperation, wondering how the hell his morning had turned in to this.


	2. Can I Have This Dance?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you're enjoying this fic, if you are please be sure to leave a comment!

_Can I have this dance?_

Mickey had known that allowing Ian to rope him in to attending Fiona and Sean’s wedding had been an awful idea. Ever since the couple had gotten engaged a few months prior he had intended on throwing together some excuse about having an important run to go on with his brothers that would result in him being unable to attend, but all it had taken was a few emotionally manipulative words from Ian and his massive eyes and Mickey had immediately caved in.

It wasn’t that Mickey didn’t want to go with Ian, or that he was ashamed of their relationship (as the red-head had initially suspected), but he just had no desire to spend an entire day surrounded by the other members of the Gallagher clan and the avalanche of destruction that always followed whenever they all congregated. He didn’t particularly have a problem with the younger members of the brood; Liam tended to mind his own business and stay quiet, despite having an odd tendency to latch on to Mickey, for whatever reason the thug wasn’t quite sure and Debbie was bearable. Hell, Mickey didn’t really mind being in her company if he overlooked how she bitched on about the girls at school and went on and on to him about the different boys she liked, despite the fact that he didn’t show a single slither of interest.

And in a surprising turn of events, Mickey had discovered that he actually quite liked Carl, what with the kid somewhat reminding him of himself when he had been his age, just with the addition of a stronger moral compass and the weird loyalty that all of the family seemed to have inherited. The two of them had been hanging out more and more recently, with Mickey teaching the younger boy how to clean guns and handle throwing stars, giving him tips on scams and recommending him the best horror films to watch, all much to Fiona’s distaste.

No, it was the older Gallagher’s that Mickey wanted to avoid as much as physically possible. Everyone tended to want to steer clear of Frank and his drunken rants on global warming and the nauseating stench of piss that followed him around, that was nothing new, but Lip was so overwhelmingly self-righteous that Mickey had to fight the urge to connect his fist with his jaw every time he was around him and Fiona always looked at Mickey like he was no better than the shit on the bottom of her shoe, despite having grown up in the same neighbourhood as him. Both of Ian’s older siblings had been unbearable after his initial diagnosis, even after he had started regularly taking his meds and seeing a therapist, constantly droning on to their younger brother about how his boyfriend was no good for him and was only going to impede his progress, attempting to persuade him to return home.Ian had insisted that they were merely worried about his wellbeing but both of them knew that wasn’t the full extent of it.

And so Mickey had ended up propped up against the battered bar of the Alibi, which was slick and sticky with God knows what, a warm buzzing spreading through his body as the countless beers he had been downing in order to get through the day began to take effect.

So far the day had gone fairly smoothly; they had sat and observed as Fiona and Sean had spoken their vows at the alter, professing their eternal love for one another and making Mickey’s eyes roll, as Ian sat with his fingers subtly rubbing circles in to the skin of his thigh, making the entire thing slightly more worthwhile. They’d all then returned to the bar, more and more family and friends that hadn’t been able to make it to the ceremony filtering in, most of them eerily resembling Frank with their worn clothes, drunken staggering and bloodshot eyes. Mickey couldn’t help but think, as he looked at the rest of Ian’s distant relatives, that he’d managed to hit the jackpot with the red head and his blinding smile and chiselled physique.

Now the reception was in full swing, the classy atmosphere of the ceremony vanished and the usual Southside party style having kicked in; the wooden tables had been shoved up against the walls, leaving only the booths to sit on, in order to make space for a dance floor which was now crammed with intoxicated bodies, writhing against each other. The deep bass of music reverberated throughout the air, pounding out of the speakers and practically bouncing off of the walls, alcohol spilling messily over the edge of glasses as people threw their arms in the air.

Kev was chatting away to Mickey from behind the bar whilst he cleaned out one of the pint glasses, a stained towel flung over his shoulder, damp against the fabric of the only suit he owned. He had been ordered to work by V after the new waitress they had hired called in sick last minute, and he was grumbling about missing out on the party raging around him. Or was he talking about how his twins were teething? Mickey wasn’t sure.

All he knew was that the cheap beer tasted good as it slid down his throat and took the edge off the built up nervous energy he had been carrying all day. He also knew that Ian looked really fucking good where he sat across the room at one of the booths, with the ripped up seats and the beer stained table, as he sat, drunkenly chatting away to Lip and Mandy about something that the two of them seemed to find amusing. The younger man was dressed up for the occasion in a pair of tight fitted black trousers, that had made it difficult for Mickey to keep his eyes off of his ass all day, and a white shirt that hugged his muscular figure, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows to show off the veins of his arms and the top few buttons un-done, likely due to the suffocating heat that enveloped the compact room. His hair, that had started off neatly combed back at the beginning of the day, was now tousled and falling over his forehead from where he had been running his fingers through it and his face was tinted red as a result of the alcohol coursing through his blood stream.

Mickey didn’t think he’d ever seen anything more beautiful, as he stood there, unashamedly checking out his boyfriend. Part of his brain told him that may have been the gayest thing he had ever thought, but at that moment in time he didn’t particularly care.

Ian must have sensed the intense pair of eyes that were practically burning holes in to the side of his head because he turned to look at Mickey, a lopsided smile gracing his features as their eyes met across the busy room. The younger man abruptly stood up from where he was sitting, swaying tipsily as he got to his feet, steadying himself on his older brother’s shoulder before starting to weave his way through the sea of bodies.

Mickey involuntarily swiped his tongue hungrily across his lips as he watched Ian approach, taking a long swig from his bottle, that was nearing on empty, and allowing his eyes to slowly drink in the other man’s appearance. He blamed the shots of tequila that Kev had talked him in to downing half an hour previously for his newfound boldness.

The red head was clearly well aware of the effect he was having on his boyfriend because when he came to a stop in front of the older man, body so close that Mickey could smell the aftershave that lingered on his skin, he had an amused smirk on his lips and a knowing glint behind his eyes.

“Like what you see?” he almost purred, words slurring slightly as he playfully reached out to rest a hand on Mickey’s hip.

The dark-haired man couldn’t help the way his body tensed up at such a public display of their relationship, still trying to unlearn the way that he had conditioned himself to hide away his sexuality, the fear still lingering in the back of his mind that Terry was going to appear out of nowhere and beat him until he was nothing but a bloody pulp on the floorboards. It took a minute, but his body eventually relaxed in to the touch and he reminded himself that everybody in this room was fully aware about his relationship with Ian and that not a single on of them gave a shit about him liking guys. And even if the more distant Gallagher relatives did have a problem with his sexuality, all of them were way too hammered to even stand, let alone give him any shit.

Ian watched his internal struggle with the same understanding expression he always did, his features having shifted to something more affectionate rather than seductive. He smiled as Mickey came to the realisation that he was safe and free, the same way that he had that night in the club in Boystown all that time ago.

“Eh, it’s alright,” Mickey shrugged in what was meant to be nonchalance, blatantly lying through his teeth in response to Ian’s question.

“Oh really?” Ian’s eyebrows shot up, tone indicating that he wasn’t buying in to Mickey’s indifference, stepping ever so slightly closer so that his boyfriend had to look up in order to main eye contact.

Mickey’s breath hitched in his throat at the closeness, which he tried to play off as a cough, but he was powerless to control the way that his body automatically responded to Ian, his senses flooded by the man before him. For a moment he thought that Ian was about to lean down and kiss him, and despite his initial panic at the thought, he felt his lips parting slightly in invitation, his body leaning closer in eagerness. However, before Ian could move the song shifted to something more upbeat and electronic and the younger man suddenly snapped to attention, his focus pulled away from Mickey’s lips, his body more fixated on swaying to the beat of the music.

Mickey was going to kill the ginger fucker.

Clearly the alcohol was in control of the younger man’s system, despite him only having had two beers (Mickey may have been keeping count), because the next thing Mickey knew he had his head tipped back, exposing the sensitive skin of his throat, and his eyes closed as he got lost in the pounding rhythm, hips moving in a way that could only be described as sinful.

Mickey gulped, his jeans growing tighter and more constricting with every agonizing second that he watched Ian. He was sure that his body’s reaction was largely down to how fucking smashed he was, to the extent that his vision was blurring at the edges, and he was also sure that, thanks to his liquid courage, if he didn’t get out of this situation soon he would end up pushing Ian up against the bar and ripping his clothes off there and then.

Before Mickey could even start thinking of ways to extract himself, Ian’s eyes had snapped open and he was staring at him devilishly.

“Can I have this dance?” the ginger spoke breathlessly, voice full of teasing and amusement, tugging slightly at Mickey’s hip.

“Fuck off am I dancing! The fuck do you think I am?” Mickey scoffed indignantly, eyebrows raised at the audacity of the suggestion and Ian merely laughed at his outrage, having expected the exact reaction.

What Ian hadn’t expected was the miniscule flicker of contemplation that washed over Mickey’s face before being pushed down, replaced by rejection. He had considered it.

That window of hesitation was all that Ian needed to latch his hand around Mickey’s wrist, ignoring the way that the other man flinched at the contact out of habit, and pull him further in to the throng of pulsating figures.

At first the dark haired man appeared infuriated by the action and for a second Ian thought that he was going to rip himself away and tell him to go fuck himself. And Mickey was tempted to do just that, however for some reason, either due to his sixth beer taking effect or how good Ian looked under the coloured disco lights that V had installed, he relented and allowed his boyfriend to drag him on to the dance floor.

They were both as equally surprised as each other at Mickey’s willingness, but Ian soon overcame his shock and got back to the task at hand.

What they were doing couldn’t exactly be classed as dancing; it was more of the older man standing, beer in hand, among the clan of partying Gallagher’s whilst Ian rubbed against him, putting the skills he had learnt at the night club to good use.

Mickey’s entire world was reduced down to nothing but the man pressed against him, his whole body alight from the way that Ian was gyrating against his thigh, one of his hands gripping his hipbone hard enough to leave imprints and the other tangled in his gelled black hair, applying just the tiniest amount of pressure so that their foreheads were pressed together. He couldn’t think of anything outside of the hard planes of the younger mans body and the jolts of pleasure that shot through him with each movement the red-head made, his brain chanting a continuous cadence of _Ian, Ian, Ian._

Nobody paid them the slightest bit of notice, they merely blended in with the plethora of other couples lost in one another, everybody enjoying themselves too much to care about what they got up too.

Mickey found himself overwhelmed by the freedom of it all; never had he thought that he would one day be standing in the local bar, his _boyfriend_ grinding against him and their lips practically touching, not a single person in the room batting so much as an eyelid.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he choked out, breathless despite barely moving, lifting his free hand to grip the back of Ian’s neck without even thinking about it. He was becoming uncomfortable in his jeans and from the looks of it, Ian was too, both of them panting with arousal. “Ian.”

The sound of his name breathlessly escaping Mickey’s lips was the only cue that Ian needed to literally drag the other man through the crowd of bodies, uncaring of who he shoved out of the way, to the unisex bathrooms at the back of the bar. He pushed the door open with the impact of his shoulder, the wood swinging back and slamming against the wall behind it, not letting go of his boyfriend’s wrist the whole way.

The second that they were away from the party, the music becoming more of a throbbing echo, their lips were fused together, Mickey surging forwards and covering the taller man’s mouth with his own.

The kiss was messy and desperate and filled with the need that had been building up between them, pushing their tongues forcefully in to one another’s mouths, bodies so close that there wasn’t even enough room for air between them.

Mickey stole the control that Ian had been holding all night, using the full weight of his body to shove the ginger up against the closest wall to them, lodging one of his jean clad thighs in between the other man’s legs, cornering him.

The rough, vandalised bricks scrapped against Ian’s back through his shirt but he couldn’t find it in himself to care, more pre-occupied with the friction of Mickey’s body against his own and the sharp but pleasurable pain as the older man caught his lower lip between his teeth. He had little control of his hands as they roamed Mickey’s figure, exploring the dips of contours of his form, eventually settling on cupping the back of his thighs to pull him closer.

The sound of his belt buckle being undone filled the empty bathroom, combining with their throaty moans and gasps for breath, as Mickey fumbled impatiently with the accessory, finally getting it unfastened. The older man lifted his lips from Ian’s, instead moving them to suck at the skin near his collarbone which was left exposed by his shirt, causing the red-head to throw his head back against the wall, letting out a pleasured gasp.

Mickey had just shoved his hand down the front of Ian’s pants when the door to the bathroom clattered open, causing the two of them to jump apart in surprise, heads snapping around to see Debbie stumbling in to the room, quickly followed by Mandy at her heels.

The younger Gallagher basically fell over the sink, throwing up the contents of her stomach up in to the basin, whilst Mandy done her best to hold her hair out of her face, looking slightly disgusted but overall unconcerned. She turned to look over at her brother and best friend as Debbie retched, not seeming at all surprised to find the two of them gasping and out of breath, with their clothes almost off, both sporting swollen lips and thoroughly pissed off expressions of their faces.

“Hey, don’t be fucked off with me; tell your fifteen your old sister to go easier on the vodka!” Mandy help up the hand that wasn’t holding Debbie’s hair in mock defence.

The younger girl finally finished spewing up her guts and wiped her mouth with her wrist, lifting her head to smile apologetically at her older brother, who just rolled his eyes and began to do up his trousers, the mood having successfully been killed.

Mickey was less forgiving, glaring daggers at the queasy girl whilst adjusting the front of his jeans to hide his extremely obvious problem, his previously pounding heart rate slowly returning to normal as he regained his breath.

“Fucking Gallaghers!” was all he managed to angrily mutter before stomping out of the room, leaving Ian to deal with his sister, who had resumed her heaving.

Ian just sighed before walking over to Debbie, resignedly rubbing comforting circles in to her back and taking over Mandy’s job of keeping the strands of red hair away from her face.

“So,” Mandy drawled suggestively, breaking the quiet that had settled between them, uninterrupted except for the music that drifted lazily in from the bar and Debbie’s splutters. He could practically hear the smirk in her voice as she spoke, “The Alibi bathroom, huh?”


	3. Is This Okay?

_Is this okay?_

Mickey stampeded up the rickety wooden stairs of his front porch, easily dodging one of the rusty nails that protruded from the bottom step, rubbing his hands together as he went in a desperate attempt to inject some warmth in to his ice cold fingers.

He had become adapted to the unforgiving winters over his countless years of living in Chicago, however this year had been exceptionally bleak and even the layers upon layers that he had bundled himself up in and the frayed scarf around his neck were doing little to protect him from the biting wind and the arctic temperature.

He had done his best to stay out of the cold all day, confining himself to warm bars with decent enough heaters and enclosed buildings, however he had been unable to avoid the conditions as he headed home from checking in at The Alibi, travelling at the fastest speed he could without breaking in to a full on run and risking breaking his damn neck on the ice, which coated the crumbling sidewalks. He hadn’t seen himself since he caught sight of his reflection in the dirty window of the electronics store but he could still tell with certainty that his nose was bitten red and the flakes of snow that clung to his eyelashes, a stark contrast to the dark black hairs, were partly visible out of the corner of his eye.

He went to push open the front door of his house, eager to step in out of the cold as quickly as possible, but soon discovered that it was locked tight when it didn’t budge under his weight.

“Fucking woman,” he grumbled through his chapped lips when he remembered Svetlana’s sudden obsession over preventing anyone from robbing them, not that they had anything to steal unless somebody had an inclination to come and take the Russian’s collection of faux fur coats and Iggy’s extensive collection of porn magazines. Hell, Mickey would be grateful is someone decided to come and remove either of those things from his life.

The woman claimed that her sudden paranoia was all in order to keep kid safe, however Mickey thought that was pretty fucking ironic considering she had decided to raise him in a neighbourhood where his night time lullaby was the shower of gunfire and murders occurred more frequently that people had hot meals.

He made a mental note to remove the lock from the front door to stop this kind of thing happening in the future whilst he rummaged around the porch for the spare key, eventually finding it in one of the draws of the dresser that was randomly placed next to the entrance of the house. He managed to unlock the door before he lost his fingers to frostbite and finally entered the residence, wasting no time in slamming the entryway shut behind him before any of the heat could seep out.

Mickey moved further in to the house, shrugging out of his thick coat, that had become like a second skin over the past few hours, throwing it carelessly over the sofa where it joined the growing pile of other abandoned items of clothing.

Svetlana, who Mickey also liked to call the source of all the aggravation in his life, was sat at the kitchen table, clad in a figure hugging mini skirt despite the sub zero conditions, a spoon of sloppy baby food, which she was unsuccessfully attempting to feed to Yevgeny, held between her fingers.

She seemed unbothered by Mickey’s arrival, unlike her son who immediately looked up at his father’s entrance and began excitedly babbling away to him, becoming even more disinterested in the unappealing mush that was being offered to him.

“Did you not fucking hear me trying to get in?” Mickey huffed when he realised that she had been sitting around in the house the entire time.

“I hear, I just do not care,” she told him with her usual air of disinterest, flicking her hair out of her face and sparing him an unimpressed glance.

“Honestly, why do I even let your chlamydia infested ass stay here? I should just throw you out on the street, let you fucking freeze to death,” Mickey snapped back at her, however the woman was unfazed by his harsh words and empty threads; she had learnt early on that underneath his thuggish façade the young man was a lot softer than he cared to admit. There was a higher likelihood of him becoming a law abiding citizen than there was of him making her homeless.

“Because I am only one who cook and clean up shit,” she suggested in her choppy, yet improving, English, her voice emphasising the boredom she felt at having this argument for the millionth time. “And orange boy kick your ass if you get rid of me and baby.”

Mickey snorted loudly, amused at the fact she thought Ian would stand a chance against him, as he strode in to the kitchen, yanking open the half-hanging off fridge door and grabbing the first stale bottle of beer he could get his hands on, frowning at the drops of condensation that fell on to his shirt. “I’d like to see him fucking try. Speaking of Red, where the fuck is he? He back yet?”

Svetlana threw down the plastic spoon she was holding in frustration, upon realising that Yevgeny had absolutely no intention of eating his dinner, mushed up carrots splattering against the scratched wood of the table. She turned in her chair, all of her attention now on Mickey.

“He be running around like dog on crack all day,” she informed the man in front of her, tone suggesting that she was less than impressed by Ian’s behaviour. Mickey paused, beer half raised to his lips, his entire body becoming rigid with tension and his demeanour immediately shifting from irritated to panicked.

Svetlana clearly realised what her words had implied and hurried to correct herself before her husband could have a meltdown in the middle of the kitchen; “Not batshit crazy. I think he is nervous.”

Mickey visibly relaxed at her words, but his brow remained creased in confusion, unsure as to what Ian had to be worrying about. He hadn’t shown any signs of anxiety the last time the older man had seen him, having been perfectly relaxed when left the house that morning; he had pressed a lazy kiss to a half-asleep Mickey’s mouth, before sliding a smoke between his boyfriend’s parted lips and leaving, shouting over his shoulder that he was headed over to Fiona’s to sort some stuff out.

The dark haired man had automatically assumed that he was off to help out with whatever shit storm was occurring in his hurricane of a family, guessing that either Frank had drunk himself in to a gutter and they had to go out searching for his coked up ass or that Carl had beat up another one of the neighbourhood kids and they were all sitting him down for a chat about not getting caught when he decided to break little boy’s noses.

“Alright, I’ll talk to him,” he promised, his words more for the purpose of getting Svetlana off of his back than reassuring any of the concerns that she had. He took a swig of his beer, that was gradually becoming warmer and warmer thanks to the cranked up heater, and let out a belch as the sour liquid slipped down his throat, moving towards his bedroom.

“Hey, piece of shit,” Svet’s thick accent soon interrupted him before he could even get a step out of the room, and he turned to look at her, eyebrows shot up at her choice of nickname, “say hello to your son.”

Mickey sighed in annoyance, gaze dropping down to Yevgeny who was perched comfortably in his high chair, that his father had stolen from one of the stores down the road. The baby was gazing up at him expectantly, arms outstretched, pudgy cheeks taking up half of his face and dark wisps of hair sticking out from his head at odd angles, as if someone had just rubbed a balloon across his scalp.

He obliged with the woman’s request, knowing that she would likely take a hammer to his skull while he slept if he dared to ignore his son, making his way over to the gurgling child and dropping a light kiss to the top of his head.

Yevgeny was delighted by the attention, a smile spreading across his rosy cheeks, displaying the first few teeth that were beginning to push their way through his gums, and chubby hands clapping together in excitement. Mickey supressed a grin at the kid’s reaction, trying to push down the warmth that blossomed in his chest as he observed his son and the way his eyes crinkled around the corners in happiness.

Mickey picked up the abandoned spoon without thinking, scraping up some of the contents out of the jar of baby food and holding it out to Yev, who immediately swallowed it down without protest, some of it missing his mouth and dripping down his chin, on to the dirtied bib that was tied around his neck.

Svetlana watched the exchange with wide eyes, surprised both by Mickey’s spontaneous actions and his ability to get Yevgeny to accept the food that she had been sitting there for almost an hour trying to get him to eat. The kid adored him.

“Traitor,” she muttered at her son, however her words held no bite; if anything she was secretly pleased that Mickey was slowly becoming more and more willing to be involved in the child’s life. And if that meant Yev favoured his father’s attention over hers, she could live with that.

Mickey shot her a smug smirk, clearly pleased with himself, and gave Yev’s hair an affectionate ruffle before heading back towards his bedroom, intent of figuring out what the fuck had gotten up Ian’s ass.

When he entered the room he found it empty, in it’s usual dishevelled state; clothes, both clean and dirty, were strewn across the bed and floor, crushed beer cans were scattered on the stained carpet and half smoked cigarettes covered the top of the dresser. Neither Mickey nor Ian were particularly bothered about mess; as long as the bed was tidy enough to get in to then they didn’t have a problem.

Mickey’s ears picked up the sound of movement coming from the attached bathroom, informing him of where Ian was, and he decided to take a seat on the bed, upon the crumpled sheets, waiting for the other man to emerge.

He downed the last dregs of his beer, abandoning the bottle on the bedside cabinet before leaning back further against the headboard. It was only then that he noticed the packed duffel bag that sat at the end of the double bed.

Eyebrows knotted together in confusion, he reached out, unzipping the bag, to find it packed full of Ian’s stuff; jumpers and jeans messily thrown in there along with a spare phone charger, pairs of underwear and bottles of aftershave.

Mickey felt a familiar sense of alarm beginning to take a hold of his body, his heart jumping in to his throat so that it felt like he could barely breathe, limbs frozen in the air, unable to move.

A million thoughts began dominating his brain, all of them attempting to fight their way to the forefront; _Was this why he’d been acting so skittish? Was he just going to run away? Had he just come here to grab the last of his stuff? Would he have even bothered to say goodbye?_

He snatched his hand away from the bag as if it had stung him, springing to his feet and running an agitated hand through his hair, starting to pace frantically without even realising he was doing so. He had thought things were good between him and Ian; Terry had been thrown back in to the joint, leaving them free of any looming threat, Mickey had fucking come out for him, their relationship finally out in the open, and Ian had finally come to terms with his diagnosis, had started taking his meds, and they were dealing with it. Sure, sometimes it still crept up on them; there were still bad days that they just had to stick through, but things had settled. They were coping, _together_.

And now what? The asshole was just going to walk out on him? After everything they had battled to be together, after Mickey had completely and readily opened his heart to him, exposing to him even the most vulnerable parts of himself that he had never before bared to anyone, he was just going to leave, without looking back, without even granting Mickey so much as an explanation or a goodbye?

By the time the bathroom door clicked open and Ian appeared, Mickey’s confusion had morphed in to a burning, white hot rage. The older man spun around, the sound of his heart pounding in his ears until it was all he could hear, hands automatically curling in to fists at his sides, fingernails engraving crescent moons in to the sweaty skin of his palms.

His chest tightened at the sight of the younger man in front of him, who appeared both surprised and startles by his presence in the room, the thought that this might be one of the last times he ever laid eyes on him making bile rise in the back of his throat.

“What are y-” Ian started to speak, voice displaying his nerves.

“What the _fuck_ is this?” Mickey spat, nodding his head sharply towards the unzipped duffel bag, speaking through clenched teeth. He tried not to let his voice quiver, unwilling to let it betray how it felt as if his entire world had just shifted on its axis.

 Ian resembled a deer caught in the headlights as he stood there, mouth opening and closing repeatedly as he searched for what to say. He had been unsure of what Mickey’s reaction would be, however he hadn’t expected him to be quite so furious. Was it really that awful of a thing?

“I-I just thought…” Ian trailed off, uncertain of exactly what to say now that he had been put on the spot. He couldn’t tell what Mickey wanted to hear, or what words he could speak that would make the situation better.

“Oh, I’m fucking sorry” Mickey laughed bitterly, eyebrows shooting up the way that they had a habit of doing when he was clearly outraged, shifting his weight from foot to foot. “Did you not expect me to be here, in my own fucking home? Did I interrupt you’re your brilliant fucking plan, Houdini?”

Ian felt his stomach plummet as Mickey worked himself in to more and more of a rage, having become used to the signs of his boyfriend’s fury; the way that his nostrils flared as he attempted to control his breathing, tattooed knuckles turning white as they contracted, striding around the room as he tried to release his pent up energy, stopping himself from lashing out. Ian had witnessed this countless times before, but it had always been directed towards some crook who had stolen from him, a creep who had come on to his sister or one of Terry’s old mates that threw slurs at him when they crossed paths with him on the streets. This all consuming infuriation had always been towards someone else. Never _him_.

“I don’t-” Ian stood, locked in place, not knowing whether Mickey actually wanted answers or if an explanation would just set him off further.

“What can you not fucking speak now? Lost your tongue along with your fucking balls?” Mickey fired at him, finally meeting his eyes.

Ian inhaled sharply at the anger behind the icy blue iris’, making his blood run cold. He didn’t think he’d ever felt so unwanted in his life; not when Monica had walked out on them for the umpteenth time, without a second thought, as if they weren’t her own flesh or blood, not when Frank had done everything in his power to ignore his existence, seeing too much of his mother in his expression to stomach even looking at him, not even when the doctors had finally put a name to his condition, causing his entire family to glance at him through wary eyes, as if he wasn’t the same person he had always been, as if he couldn’t be trusted to handle anything without breaking.

However, it was the look of raw hurt and betrayal that shone behind the anger in Mickey’s eyes that threw Ian off, the way he looked as if Ian had just stabbed him in the heart and twisted the blade. He could almost understand the anger, had expected some resistance although not to this extent, but he couldn’t quite fathom why Mickey looked so utterly heartbroken. He was acting as if Ian was… _shit_.

The red-head finally began piecing together what this must have looked like to his boyfriend; the bag packed full of clothes and toiletries, the guilt and nervousness that was evidently written all over his face.

And _God_ , it broke Ian’s heart to think that Mickey would even consider that he would do that to him. That he was standing there, head full of thoughts about how Ian didn’t want him anymore, or that he was just going to vanish off the face of the Earth without even telling him.

“You know what? Go fuck yourself!” Mickey growled as the silence stretched on and Ian failed to say anything, to even attempt to give him some sort of explanation. He threw one last, disgusted, look at the taller man, scared that if he let his anger slip he would be unable to hold back the tidal wave of emotions that were building inside of him, taking a step to leave the room.

The realisation that Mickey was leaving propelled Ian out of his state of shock and he lurched forwards, fear clawing away at him at the thought of the other man walking out without giving him a chance to explain himself. He clasped his fingers tight around Mickey’s wrist without thinking, stopping him in his tracks, however he soon realised his mistake when the older man snatched himself out of his grasp, spinning around incredulously, and jammed a threatening finger in to Ian’s chest, eyes full of warning.

“Don’t you fucking _dare_.”

“I’m not leaving you!” Ian blurted out desperately, frantically trying to explain the situation, unable to bare Mickey thinking that he would even contemplate walking out on him for a second longer.

Mickey froze in place, brain struggling to catch up on what Ian had just told him. He took in the younger man’s panic-stricken expression, the way that his eyes were pleading with him to understand, and felt the hurt and betrayal that had been coursing through him begin to evaporate, instead replaced by pure confusion.

“You’re not?” He hated how small he sounded when he spoke, how vulnerable and exposed he felt as he stood in the middle of the bedroom, all of his emotions on display for the other man to bear witness to.

Ian’s face melted in to a mixture of something so soft and broken and sympathetic that it made Mickey want to run for cover, unused to having someone look at him in a way that was so unashamedly tender.

“As if I would ever do that to you! Fuck, Mickey, I would never; you know that.” Although, clearly, he didn’t.

“Jesus fucking _Christ,_ Gallagher!” Mickey couldn’t stop the disbelieving, almost hysterical laugh that escaped him, his head pounding from experiencing such a whirlwind of heartbreak and anger and relief in the space of a few minutes. “What the fuck is all that then?” He gestured towards the back that remained atop the bed.

Ian’s nervous, almost guarded body language immediately returned at the mention of his packed up belongings, biting down nervously on his bottom lip as he thought about the best way to explain what he had been up to to his boyfriend, without bringing back his anger.

“Well, you know- I just thought…I mean, you said-” Ian rubbed the back of his neck uneasily, looking anywhere he could except for Mickey’s face.

“Spit it out, Ian,” he demanded, the other man’s stuttering causing his apprehension to return. The use of Ian’s name seemed to spur him in to talking and his focus snapped down to the man before him, who was expectantly awaiting an explanation.

“I thought I could move in,” Ian told him, smiling sheepishly, waiting to gauge his reaction. He carried on talking when Mickey didn’t immediately respond; “I mean, the other day you were talking about how so much of my shit is here that I’ve practically moved in, so I kind of thought I’d bring the rest of my stuff over, you know? Most of it was already here anyway, but I just went back to Fiona’s and grabbed whatever was left over there, which wasn’t much admittedly. I guess I just thought it would be easier. But I wasn’t sure if you would mind, or if it was too much for you so I brought it over while you were out; didn’t think you’d even notice some more of my shit being here. But, if it’s too much pressure, I can take it back, I don’t want to rush you in to anything, y’know, if it’s too soon…”

The red-head’s frenzied rambling eventually trailed off and he stood there, in the crushing silence, slightly out of breath as he awaited any kind of reaction. The quiet was suffocating, almost worse that the previous fit of rage, pressing down on Ian until he couldn’t breath, his brain automatically thinking the worst, a sheen of nervous sweat building in his hairline.

Mickey appeared as if he’d had all of the wind knocked out of him, completely taken back by Ian’s admission, face expressionless, giving no hint to his emotions as he stood there, trying to process the information.

The longer the dark haired man took to respond, the more that Ian’s fears grew; he knew that Mickey would freak out, that he was putting too much pressure on him, forcing him in to too much too soon. Why couldn’t he have just left it alone? Now he had gone and spooked him and there was a high chance that Mickey would withdraw in to himself and stop Ian from staying there altogether, in the fear of getting too close and too attached.

Ian parted his lips to apologise and tell Mickey to just forget about it, when the other man charged forwards, snapping out of his daze and grabbing Ian by the back of the neck, stretching up slightly and smashing their mouths together.

The taller man froze in surprise for a moment, this being the last thing he had expected Mickey to do, before allowing himself to relax in to the kiss, lifting one hand up to rest delicately on Mickey’s cheek, still slightly hesitant, his fingertips grazing the harsh stubble of his shaven jaw, and allowing the other one to hook itself in to the other man’s belt loop, softly tugging him closer so that they were chest to chest.

They poured out all the emotions that had piled up between them in the last few minutes through their lips, each movement of their mouths and every shift of their lips holding a different meaning; _I’m sorry. I would never leave you. I shouldn’t have doubted you. I’m not going anywhere. Of course I want you to live here._

They stood together in the middle of the messy bedroom for what seemed like an eternity, teeth occasionally clashing together and tongues slipping out from between their lips every now and then, holding each other in place, neither of them containing any desire to take it any further, content enough in one another’s presence.

They eventually pulled apart, once their lips were sore and swollen, muscles cramping and lungs starved of oxygen, but made sure not to move too far away from each other.

“So,” Ian breathlessly cut through the stillness, eyes shining as he watched Mickey, admiring the faint splatter of freckles that covered the skin of his face, the plumpness of his reddened lips, the way that his eyelashes cast shadows across the soft angles of his cheek, “is this okay?”

Mickey looked incredulous at the question, as if Ian was out of his mind for so much as entertaining the idea that he wouldn’t want him living there, or that he would reject him. Not that he had much room to judge; as if the thought of leaving Mickey would ever so much as cross Ian’s mind.

“Of course it’s fucking okay,” Mickey grinned, his tongue trailing along his top row of teeth, giving the back of Ian’s neck an affectionate squeeze. “Just- fuck, don’t scare me me like that again, alright asshole?”

“I won’t,” Ian rushed to promise him; he would do anything to never let Mickey have those kind of doubts again. As if he could ever walk away from him.   

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this chapter, I'm sorry that it was a bit angsty! 
> 
> If you liked this chapter, please leave a comment below, I'd appreciate it!
> 
> Twitter: @grimeslincoln


	4. There's Enough Room For Both Of Us

_There is enough room for both of us._

Mickey would admit, albeit begrudgingly, that he wasn’t the the biggest fan of clubbing and spending his weekends amidst a crowd of pulsating, sweat-dripping bodies, ears pounding with music so loud that he could barely think and neon lights illuminating the sharp angles of his face.

Sure, his idea of a good time consisted more of sipping on a bottle of beer in the comfort of his own home, some heavy rock album, which had been passed down from Joey, providing a soundtrack, a good quality joint between his lips and the leftovers from the previous night’s takeaway sat on the coffee table in front of him. Preferably with Ian.

But even he drew the line at spending his Saturday night packed tightly in to the living room of the Gallagher house, like a fucking sardine, one of Frank’s offspring in his face every time he turned around (because apparently they hadn’t learnt of a thing called personal space, like the Milkovich’s did).

It had first been suggested to him on the Saturday morning, when the warm sunlight was lazily spilling through the cheap curtains of his bedroom window, bathing his body in a warm, comforting glow, Ian sprawled besides him like a long-legged starfish, breathless and sticky, both of them still coming down from their wave of pleasure. His brain had been clouded by the slowly fading feel of his boyfriend’s body writhing underneath him, fingernails digging in to the soft layer of flesh just above his hip bones, the echo of his name rolling off of Ian’s tongue, in a needy, desperate gasp, still vivid in his mind.

He was spread on his front, clammy bed sheets wrapped around his lower legs, making him too hot, but not hot enough that he could be bothered to pull himself out of his after-sex haze and kick them off, skin slick with perspiration and his naked chest heaving from both exertion and pleasure.

He had been slowly drifting back off in to a blissful unconsciousness, limbs heavy and eyelids drooping, when he felt Ian roll on to his side next to him, felt the mattress dip slightly as the younger man propped himself up on one elbow, could tell without even looking that Ian was watching him intently with that stupid, lovesick smirk that he always got on his face after they fucked.

Mickey’s skin had tingled at the feel of the other man’s eyes on him, the fair hairs on the back of his neck prickling, and he struggled to supress the smile that played on his lips at the attention.

“The fuck you looking at?” he had managed to croak out, voice raspy, flicking one eye open to look up at Ian, who was gazing back down at him, eyes sparkling with fondness, the rays of sunlight transforming his red hair in to a crown of flickering gold, the faint freckles splattered across his cheeks and shoulders lit up like constellations. Mickey thought that he must have looked like one of those Gods from the mythological stories his mother used to read him when Terry wasn’t around; as if he belonged on some sort of ornate throne carved out of precious stones, mere mortals worshiping at his feet and people attempting to put his otherworldly beauty in to words.

Mickey didn’t voice those thoughts though; knew that he would never hear the fucking end of it if he did.

“You,” Ian had responded unashamedly, the pads of his fingertips reaching out to ghost a trail along the toned planes of the older man’s back, admiring as the muscles rippled under his palm, setting Mickey’s nerve ending alight as he done so.

He had leant forwards, brushing his reddened lips against Mickey’s shoulder, letting the touch linger for a moment before gradually moving higher and higher until he came to the sweet spot that hid just behind his ear, below the cutting edge of his jawline. He increased the pressure ever so slightly, sucking in the sensitive skin, his mouth wet and warm, until it was throbbing, Mickey’s back arched in response to the contact, sucking in sharp breaths through his lungs.

Ian continued on with his exploration of his boyfriend’s body, repeating the process for what felt like hours until Mickey’s entire upper back, neck and shoulders felt as if they were trembling with sensitivity.

When the red-head had broken through the serene silence, voice hoarse, to casually tell Mickey that Fiona had invited them round that evening for a movie night, he had been so overwhelmed by blissful gratification and the memory of Ian’s touch that he would have agreed to giving the other man his left kidney without a moment’s hesitation.

And so there he was, at nine o’clock on a Saturday evening, elbows rested on the breakfast bar of the Gallagher kitchen, watching as Ian set about microwaving all of the packets of popcorn that he could find nestled in the back of the cupboards, some found hidden behind cans of tinned food and others that looked as if they had been there since before Liam had been born. Eventually he managed to scrape together enough to feed the entire clan of people waiting impatiently in the living room, splitting open the brown paper packets and pouring kernels of all different flavours, ranging from salt to sweet to butter to even toffee, in to a microwavable bowl.

“That’ll have to do,” he sighed, brushing crumbs off of his hands, as he closed the microwave door, entering in the timings and starting it up. He waltzed over to the other side of the bench, opposite his boyfriend, and leant up against the cool wood counter, shooting Mickey a lopsided smile. “Thanks for coming; I know you’re not a massive fan of these family nights.”

Mickey chewed down on his lower lip, gaze flicking up to take in Ian’s grateful expression. It made his chest tighten, in a way he wasn’t familiar with, to think that the younger man thought he would rather be anywhere else other than with him.

“Eh, ‘s not that bad; there’s free food and beer,” he shrugged in what was supposed to be an attempt at nonchalance, throat bobbing slightly. “And you’re here,” he tacked on to the end, his mouth blurting out the words before he could stop attempt to stuff them back in.

_Fuck_ , he felt like sticking his head in the fucking microwave along with the popcorn, _he sounded so fucking whipped_.

He averted his eyes away from the other man, grinding his teeth together in a mixture of embarrassment and nervousness, finding a sudden intense interest in one of the brownish stains on the countertop. He knew that if he looked up at Ian, the younger man would have that stupid besotted expression on his face, as if Mickey had just asked him to fucking marry him or some shit, and he didn’t quite know what to do with that; not familiar with having someone look at him with what was so akin to devotion.

The echoes of noise that had been filtering in from the other room, sound effects reverberating from the television speakers and the bickering of the kids, faded in to white noise, overtaken by the sound of Mickey’s thumping heart filling his ears, as if he were submerged in water.

He knew Ian liked all that soppy shit; heartfelt words and romantic gestures, but every time he opened up he felt as if he were offering the other man his beating heart on a plate, practically begging for him to crush it in his palm. And on some level, he knew that Ian would never even contemplate doing that, that rejecting Mickey’s efforts would never even cross his mind, but he was still controlled by how Terry had persistently drilled in to him and his siblings to supress emotions and use their fists as a method of communication.

He could still distinctly picture in his mind the first and only time his father had caught him crying; it had been a couple of days after he and Mandy had found their mother, overdosed, on the ratty couch, a needle sticking out of the delicate flesh of her inner elbow and vomit pooling around her head, matting in to her black hair (one of the many features he had inherited from her), the sickly smell sinking in to the walls.

Mickey had been nine when they discovered her; him and his sister having just stumbled through the door, back from school (it wasn’t until his mother’s demise that he had regularly started skipping class, opting instead to go and drown his sorrows in some back alley), bickering aimlessly about something or other, throwing playful punches and spitting half-hearted insulted back and forth. He had assumed she was passed out at first, having grown accustomed to find her unconscious and surrounded by pills and powders, more frequently ever since Terry had lost the minimum wage job he had miraculously managed to hold down for a few months and had started taking his anger out on his wife’s face. His father had always been a violent drunk, and he was wasted more often than he was sober, but his outbursts were usually contained to a backhanded slap or a sharp insult, but lately they had escalated in to full blown beatings; his wife taking the brunt of his fury so that her children didn’t have to.

It was only when Mickey had stepped further in to the room, dropping his second hand school bag to the floor at his feet, that he had begun to register the glassy look in his mother’s unblinking eyes and the sickly paleness that had overtaken her skin. Her frame was frail and bony, considering her diet consisted more of cocaine and heroin than actual cooked food, and fresh purple welts adorned her left cheek bone and eye socket (most likely from before Terry had left that morning), bordered by fading, speckled-yellow bruises, the marks a stark contrast to her ghostly complexion.

He had seen corpses before (it was more surprising if you managed not too growing up on the streets of the South Side), had caught glimpses of the bodies of old tramps in ditches, left there to rot and decay, nobody giving enough of a shit to pay them any attention, had even watched a man bleed out the sidewalk after being stabbed by a messed up teenager, the dark stain of his blood still lingering on the cement.

But they had always been nameless strangers, just another local piece of trash that were destined to live and die in the neighbourhood. They had never been his _mother_ ; the woman that cooked him pancakes in the shape of animals on the mornings that she managed to drag herself out of bed, plastered up his bloody knuckles when he got in bust ups with kids in his class, sung him melodies in Ukrainian when he couldn’t sleep, shielded him behind her legs when his father stumbled home, so drunk he could barely stand, looking for a fight.

Mandy had been tugging on his ripped up shirt, crying something indistinguishably, her hands shaking against him, but he had tuned out her hysterical sobs and tear choked words, unable to tear his eyes away from his mother’s stiff form, expression stoic, body frozen in place at the foot of the couch. Eventually he must have moved and dialled the emergency services because soon after the ambulances were there, sirens wailing dramatically in the wind, faceless workers crawling around his house like rats, one woman attempting to console a distraught Mandy, who was tucked up a corner, and another standing before him, reaching out to place a comforting hand on his shoulder.

He remembers shoving the woman off, snapping out of his stupor and barrelling in to his bedroom, collapsing in to a heap against the doorframe, unable to watch as they carried the only person who had ever shown any sort of affection towards him away on a stretcher.

Mickey didn’t move from his position on the floorboards for days, muscles not so much as twitching, the image of his mother’s sick-soaked body not leaving his mind for even a second. The sun rose and set outside of his window, shadows crawling up and down the room as its position in the sky changed, his father and brothers not sparing him a second thought to come and see where he was or how he was coping; Joey, Jamie and Iggy had distracted themselves from their grief by going out and trashing stores and drinking themselves in to oblivion and he had heard Terry come and go, leaving a destructive path of overturned furniture and smashed kitchenware in his wake. Mandy had snuck in to the room a handful of times, sporting bloodshot eyes and tear stained cheeks, not saying a word but instead choosing to sit down next to her brother and curl in to his side, the only time she was able to drift in to a restless sleep being when her head was against his still-beating chest. He had let her, forgetting about how abnormal it was for them to sit there and fucking cuddle, unable to muster up the energy to even stand up, let alone shove her off and kick her out.

Eventually, after what felt like a lifetime of being slouched against his peeling wall, he had stood, a burning anger settling itself in between his ribcage and spreading through his bloodstream, tainting every single inch of his body until he was practically choking on it. He had laid waste to his bedroom; tearing posters down, taking the damp wallpaper with them, hauling flimsy action figures across the confined space and pummelling holes in to the plasterboard with his tiny, but experienced, fists.

He hadn’t even realised he had been shrieking like some sort of pained, wild animal until Terry had burst in through the door, having returned from his round of binge drinking, looming and looking positively murderous in the entryway. Mickey had frozen in place the second he caught sight of his father, his rage quickly becoming replaced by a paralyzing fear. He must have started crying at some point during his eruption because there were salty tears dripping down his chin, pooling in the dips of his collarbones, and he was sniffling through his stuffed nose like a toddler.

He may have just found the body of his death mother but that didn’t seem to matter to Terry; any displays of weakness were simply unacceptable.

“I didn’t raise no son of mine to be a snivelling, whiny pussy!” he could still hear the words that Terry had spoken as if he were standing there in the room, the old man’s voice coming out in a roar before he strode across the room, grabbing the mourning boy in an unforgiving chokehold and raining punch upon punch down on Mickey’s face until there was the strong, metallic tang of blood on his tongue and his vision was going dark around the edges.

His mother was lying on a slab in a morgue, powerless to direct Terry’s violence away from his son, and so he could do nothing but stand there and take it, too small and frightened to do anything but allow his bones to be crunched and splintered, until the intoxicated man finally got bored and released him, leaving just as quickly as he had arrived.

Mickey had managed to crawl to his bed, dried blood soaking in to his sheets, willing the unbearable pounding to disappear from his skull and attempting to breath through his aching jaw and cracked teeth. Mandy sunk in at some point in the night, once Terry had left one again, probably back off to The Alibi, her bare feet padding against the floorboards. She had clambered up on to the mattress, sitting cross-legged next to Mickey’s curled up, battered body and pressed a damp cloth to his split lip and the ragged cuts that littered his face. She had cleaned him up as best she could at the tender age of seven, before making herself comfortable against the limp cushions, waiting patiently until Mickey was ready and decided himself to slither up and lay his pounding head in her lap, wrapping a shaky arm around her shins and letting himself bawl in to her legs, muffling his wails.

She had stroked a hand through his hair and massaged comforting circles in to his back, the same way that her mother had done for her whenever she became frightened by Terry’s threats and shouts, not saying anything about the way his bones rattled and his lungs gasped for air, instead just letting him get it all out.

They had stayed like that, the dilapidated house silent around them, until Mickey had drifted in to his first sleep in days.

They never spoke of that night afterwards and Mickey never again let so much as a single tear escape him in front of his father.

“Mick,” Ian’s concerned tone snapped Mickey out of his painful memories, bringing him abruptly back to the present, the walls of the Gallagher kitchen forming around him, the smell of popcorn in his nostrils and a distressed ginger staring back at him.

He realised that he had completely spaced out, having grown even more silent and brooding than usual.

“You okay?” Ian questioned, voice quiet so as not to spook him or draw any of his family’s attention to them.

“Y-yeah,” he croaked out, voice grown hoarse and raspy, clearing his throat with a quick cough. “I’m good. When’s this fucking popcorn going to be ready, I’m starvin’ Gallagher.”

Ian clearly caught on to his obvious attempt to change the subject and move the focus away from himself, but he said nothing, worry flickering over his features for just a second before he pushed it down, moving his attention to the cooking snack.

The microwave was beeping away, the sound of popcorn popping ringing out like a steady burst of firecrackers and the strong scent of butter and salt mixing together, filling the house, the numbers on the control pad gradually descending towards zero.

“Nearly done; about another minute,” Ian informed him, attempting to subtly make his way around the breakfast bar to the side that Mickey was still rested against. The older man shot him a quizzical glance but ultimately decided not to mention his movement, finding that he actually craved his boyfriend’s touch.

When Ian slowly shuffled around to him, actions soft and relaxed, Mickey didn’t shove him away, instead straightening up, pushing himself off of the wooden counter and turning so that he was facing the younger man; as much as an invitation as the red-head was going to get.

Ian didn’t need any further encouragement; knowing Mickey and his mannerisms well enough to know that in the past few minutes he had slipped in to a darker mind set and required some sort of comfort, but just didn’t have the words to ask for it.

He wasted no time in snaking his arms around Mickey’s waist, his arms fitting perfectly around the shorter man’s torso, tugging him in closer so that they were stood chest to chest, warm breath on one another’s faces, close enough that they could count each other’s individual eyelashes. Ian expected the way that Mickey’s body tensed up instinctually for a beat before he melted in to the embrace, pressing himself impossibly closer and burrowing his face in to the crook of the red-head’s neck, eyelids fluttering closed as he breathed him in, senses overwhelmed by Ian’s blended aroma of popcorn, cheap shower gel and the coffee that he had gulped down that morning.

Ian was fully aware that this behaviour was unusual for Mickey; it wasn’t that they didn’t cuddle or that Mickey had problems with intimacy (although they were still getting there), it was more that this kind of clutching one another was usually reserved for when _Ian_ needed calming down or comforting, and it was rarely ever done where any of the Gallagher siblings could just stroll in and see them.

However, he refused to complain, instead smoothing his palms up and down Mickey’s clothed back, letting the other man take as long as he needed to snap out of his funk.

They stood like that, wrapped up in each other, until the sudden bleeping of the microwave sounded through the room, signalling that the popcorn was ready and causing them both to jump apart slightly in surprise.

“Guess it’s finished,” Ian grinned, taking amusement in the frankly offended expression on Mickey’s face, as if the electronic machine had personally offended him for doing what it was designed for.

“No fucking shit Sherlock,” Mickey muttered, scratching at his nose and shifting his weight from foot to foot, officially having been pulled out of his warm and affectionate mood.

Despite the food being ready, Ian made no attempt to move, instead lowering his head slightly so that the tip of his nose was brushing against Mickey’s, their foreheads millimetres away from touching.

Mickey bit at the inside of his cheek, pulling at the tissue with his molars, and tried to contain his heavy breathing, his respiration naturally becoming harsher whenever Ian was close, as if his body had been conditioned to respond that way whenever Ian was near enough to touch.

“I’m glad you’re here, by the way,” Ian whispered so that it was only audible to Mickey’s ears, acknowledging the older man’s earlier declaration and letting him know that he appreciated the sentiment. He knew that it wasn’t easy for Mickey to always say exactly how he was feeling and he was grateful that he was beginning to open up.

Mickey appeared visibly uncomfortable by the openness, pursing his lips slightly and avoiding eye contact as if his life depended on it, however he failed to protest when Ian closed the miniscule amount of space between them and gently brushed their lips together, so softly that it could barely be felt.

They stayed close together, mouths touching but not really touching at the same time, Mickey’s hands slipping themselves under the soft material of Ian’s hoodie, running up and down the curves and angles of the figure underneath, both of them having long forgotten about the television blaring in the next room and the group of people waiting on them.

It was only when Lip strolled in to the kitchen, seemingly unfazed by the intimate embrace that he had interrupted, that the two men were reminded of the other people’s presence in the house. They ripped themselves apart, the action slow and reluctant, as if they were standing up from a seat after their sticky thighs had stuck to the leather, Mickey looking flustered and disgruntled whilst Ian just appeared irritated at being interrupted.

“When you’re finished _cuddling_ in the kitchen, could you hurry your asses up and get the popcorn; we’re starving in there,” Lip addressed them casually, pulling open the fridge, grabbing one of the last cans of beer, cracking it open, releasing a hiss as the pressure was relieved, before shooting them a knowing smirk and sauntering back in to the living room.

“Smart ass is lucky I don’t knock his smug fucking teeth out of his head,” Mickey seethed, glaring at the retreating form of the eldest Gallagher brother. Lip’s mere existence had always been enough to set Mickey’s teeth on edge; sure they managed to co-exist around each other (mostly for the sake of their common love for Ian), but the Milkovich despised the way that other boy acted as if he and his brains were _God’s fucking gift to Earth_ , constantly acting as if his word was gospel and that everybody else in the neighbourhood, outside of his family, were below him, despite having grown up on the same shitty streets and taken part in the same shifty scams to get food on the table.

Not to mention that he didn't appreciate him sniffing around his sister.

“Yeah well I’m grateful that you don’t,” Ian responded, shooting the shorter man a look that told him he would in no way appreciate it if he started beating on his brother’s face, no matter how much he knew Mickey sometimes wanted too. Ian had come to accept early on it his relationship with Mickey that his boyfriend and his brother were never going to be best friends; were never going to go for beers or chat about what was going on in their lives, but he appreciated that they tolerated each other to the extent that they could hang out under the same roof and that Lip reigned in his wise-guy comments enough to not push Mickey to murder him in his sleep.

“Yeah well you’re fucking lucky I like your lanky ass otherwise Einstein in there would be a fucking dead man,” Mickey groused, thick eyebrows knitted together in a frown, pulling a sharp laugh from Ian.

As much as Ian respected Mickey’s tough guy persona and his flippant attitude towards violence and murder (and he had no doubt that Mickey wouldn’t have too many qualms about beating Lip to a pulp), it was difficult to take him seriously when just a few days before he had caught the man watching Pretty Little Liars with Debbie and had once seen him with pink painted nails after Kev and V’s twins had taken a shine to him.

He refrained from telling Mickey that though, knowing that insulting his masculinity would only further his grumpiness, instead pressing one more chaste kiss to his boyfriend’s mouth, successfully distracting his mind away from Lip.

“You love my lanky ass,” was all he said before stepping away completely, leaving cold air where he had been standing, moving back around the breakfast bar to remove the popcorn from the microwave. He split the snack between two smaller bowls, making it easier to share out between the party of people stuffed in to the living room, and then motioned for Mickey to follow him as he strolled in to join everyone else.

Bright lights were emitting from the television, the different colours projecting on to the faces of the people watching it, giving them an eerie glow, and the loud din of explosions escaped the screen, sounding over the noise of people chatting amongst themselves.

Everybody was packed around the TV, watching intently; Fiona and V were tucked up on the armchair, the orange blanket that usually adorned it wrapped around their tangled limbs, whilst Kev sat on the floor at their feet, head leant back so that it was brushing Veronica’s thigh. Lip had just settled back on the loveseat next to Mandy, who he had invited round to join them, lifting up her outstretched legs so that he could shuffle in underneath them before letting her feet rest in his lap, offering her the can of beer in his hands. The sofa was also occupied; Debbie was perched at the end furthest away from the kitchen, legs curled up underneath her and a half-asleep Liam against her chest, the young boy fighting to keep his eyes open in an attempt to continue watching whatever was on the screen. Carl too was on the floor, legs kicked up at an awkward angle on the coffee table and his back leant up against the sofa, leaving room on the couch for Ian and Mickey to sit.

“What are we watching?” Ian enquired as he glanced at the television, leaning over to hand Fiona one of the bowls of popcorn before settling down at the other end of the couch, opposite his younger sister.

“Batman,” Kev informed him, eyes not leaving the screen.

“The one with Bane?”

“Nah, Joker,” Lip offered, before carrying on with a teasing grin, “although you two lovebirds have missed half of it; two busy eating each other’s faces in the kitchen.”

Ian shot his brother a glare, knowing that he was well aware he and Mickey had hardly been making out in the other room, before shooting a worried glance at his boyfriend; expecting him to be preparing to lunge at Lip.

However, Mickey, who was still standing somewhat awkwardly in the doorway to the living room, just clenched his jaw and shot the Gallagher man his middle finger, the letter ‘C’ scrawled over the skin.

Ian looked questioningly at the dark-haired man, confused as to why he was hovering instead of taking a seat, before he realised that Mickey was unsure as to where to situate himself, despite there being plenty of room next to Ian.

He could almost feel his own face soften at the realisation that Mickey thought he didn’t want him sitting next to him; hated seeing the other man feel so out of place.

“Hey,” Ian whispered towards him, grabbing his attention whilst avoiding attracting the eyes of the rest of his family, knowing that it would only make Mickey feel even more uneasy.

Mickey’s eyed the space next to Ian, as if having an internal battle over whether or not to sit there despite clearly wanting too, biting down apprehensively on his bottom lip.

“There’s enough room for both of us,” Ian encouraged him, knowing that all the older man needed was that slight assurance and confirmation that his actions wouldn’t be rejected, jerking his head towards the spot next to him, offering his boyfriend an easy smile.

Mickey barely hesitated for another second before moving further in to the room and sinking down in to the green cushions next to Ian, their jean clad thighs brushing together. Ian passed the popcorn bowl he was holding along so that it was rested in Mickey’s lap, ensuring that Debbie, Liam and Carl could reach it as well.

Both of them turned their focus to the movie playing out on the screen, not overly bothered about missing a good twenty minutes of it when they went to make the popcorn; having seen the picture enough times before to easily catch up on what was happening.

They paid attention to the scenes playing out, watching as the clownish villain, with his painted face and gruesome scars, crashed the party, making threats and inciting chaos. Ian eventually leant in to Mickey’s side, moving his head closer to that he could speak to him without interrupting the others; “The Joker is the best Batman villain, yes or no?”

Mickey’s eyes fluttered up to look at him, wondering if they were really going to have this debate, before ultimately deciding to indulge him; “I dunno man; Bane is badass.”

Ian scoffed, clearly disagreeing with his answer; “Pretty sure you’re just saying that because you think he’s fit.”

Mickey shrugged, lips quirking upwards, not denying the accusation.

“What about the classic villains; Catwoman and The Riddler?” Ian suggested, thinking back to when the two of them had spent a day watching all of the Keaton and Kilmer movies; Mickey hadn’t enjoyed them as much, not appreciating their more cartoonish style, however Ian had loved the appearances of so many iconic baddies.

“Eh, the blue ice guy was shit,” Mickey debated, referring to Mr. Freeze. “I liked the plant bitch though, what was she called?”

“Posion Ivy,” Ian smirked, knowing full well that Mickey was aware of her name but just didn’t want to seem as if he had enjoyed the films too much. “And you say you don’t have a thing for red heads…”

That comment earned him a quick jab to the ribs and he snorted at Mickey’s indignant expression. “Fuck off man,” he retaliated, voice hushed. “’Sides, she had tits so it don’t count.”

Ian almost choked on the mouthful of popcorn that he was in the middle of swallowing down, not expecting Mickey to actually attempt to defend himself. He couldn’t control the way he grinned down at the older man, even though he was aware it probably looked really fucking creepy, overwhelmed by how endearing he looked as he sat there; arms crossed over his chest, a slight pout playing at his lips and his brow creased in hard lines.

The red-head just laughed, deciding to let Mickey be. Instead he pushed his luck and shuffled in closer to his boyfriend, half expecting him to shove him away, however Mickey done no such thing.

By the time the movie reached the Joker’s final scene; the psychotic criminal manically hanging upside down out of the side of the building, purple coat flapping wildly in the wind, half of the people in the living room had either dispersed to go to bed or passed out in their chairs. Lip and Mandy had disappeared half an hour previously, slinking up the stairs, Mickey doing everything possible to not think about what the fuck they were doing up there, Fiona and V had both dozed off, along with Kev who was sprawled across the rug, mouth wide open and soft snores vibrating from him.

Mickey and Carl were the only ones left awake, still watching the story play out; Debbie had fallen asleep with her arms shooting out at odd angles above her head and somehow, at some point in the night, Liam had found his way on to Mickey’s lap, deciding that it would be the perfect place to make his bed.

Even Ian was out cold; the red-head had barely made it two hours in before crashing out, having gradually nuzzled his way further and further in to Mickey’s side, his head now rested on his boyfriend’s shoulder so that his nose was brushing the skin of his neck, one arm thrown over the top of his chest, above Liam, trapping him in place and his ridiculously long legs intertwined with Mickey’s like vines.

The end credits eventually began rolling and Carl pushed himself off of the floor, clicking his neck and shooting Mickey a tired ‘goodnight’ before climbing up the stairs to bed, leaving the other man pinned under a cocoon of unconscious bodies.

However, as Mickey felt sleep beginning to overtake him too, the warmth of Ian’s body radiating around him and the sound of his steady breathing in his ear, he couldn’t find it in himself to care.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thankyou for reading! Sorry this chapter got a little bit morbid in the middle, I just wanted to give a deeper insight in to Mickey's childhood and why he sometime struggles with things the way that he does!
> 
> If you liked this, I'd love it if you leave a comment below, it encourages me to write faster! 
> 
> Twitter: @grimeslincoln


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